


It's Kind Of A Group Effort (How To Seduce A Footballer In Seven Days)

by zanoranna (rei_c)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Crack, M/M, everyone is ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/zanoranna
Summary: Juan's neverquitereceived instructions like this from his manager before.
Relationships: Juan Mata/Fernando Torres





	It's Kind Of A Group Effort (How To Seduce A Footballer In Seven Days)

_Monday_

It's not unusual for new players to have a meeting with the manager before their first practice; Juan hasn't played for too many clubs at the senior level but a lot of his friends have transferred and they say it's pretty standard. Still, he's nervous, sitting there in André's office with just Raùl Meireles for company. 

...Wait. Just Raùl? 

"You are both good players. That is why Roman spent money on you." André sighs and gestures like he has opinions, either about Roman or Roman's money or Roman spending Roman's money. "We need some -- some pace, in our midfield, some creativity, some spark. Yes. Spark. But," and now Juan's feeling his heart race, as André leans forward, looks intently between him and Raùl, "we have a problem, also. Roman spent fifty million pounds on Fernando Torres in the January transfer window and he is not -- not exactly _pleased_ , shall we say, with the return on his investment. When Roman is not pleased, _nobody_ is pleased." 

Juan swallows, glances at Raùl, and then says, hesitantly, "But, that's why we're here, right? We play a different sort of game and Fernando should benefit from that? Building up play instead of aimless long balls from our side of the pitch?" 

André leans back, runs his fingers through his hair. "It is true. The dynamics of our play will change because we expect both of you to have an impact on our creative mentality. And it is true, also, that the team is more than just Fernando Torres. But Roman would like to see Fernando in his best form, you understand? We all profit from that."

"We're here to make him happy," Raùl says. "I understand." 

Juan looks between them, sees André raise an eyebrow and Raùl nod, sharply. André looks relieved, until he looks at Juan and raises that eyebrow again. Really, André has a thing about his eyebrows, it's very strange to Juan, at least until he thinks of Mourinho, of Ancelotti and Hiddink and Xavi and Lahm and -- his mind stutters, as André raises the other eyebrow as well. 

Both eyebrows, like that; it's very intimidating.

"A happy Fernando is a happy owner," Juan says. He thinks he's frowning and resists the urge to reach up and touch his own eyebrows, feel what they're doing. "Got it." 

André stares at him, then says, "Raùl? If you would excuse us?" 

"Sure," Raùl says. He stands, tugs up his jeans, and says, "I'll take Fernando out for lunch today." 

"Good," André says. "Fast on the pitch, fast off the pitch, no wasting time. I like that. Yes. This will work very well, I think. Good." 

Raùl leaves and, suddenly, Juan feels very small and very alone. He gulps, fidgets on his chair, and has flashbacks to the academy, to school when he was very young, to his _mother_. He's done something wrong, already, how is that even possible, but he has no idea what.

"I'm not so sure you understand the intricacies of what I am saying, Juan," André says. "It is no reflection on you, of course; perhaps this is the first time anyone is asking of you what we are." André steeples his fingers beneath his chin, looks thoughtful. "There is no delicate way to say what needs to be clarified. So. I will speak bluntly. Fernando Torres _must_ be happy. He must have no confidence issues. He must have no doubts. He must know that he is wanted here, both as a player and as an individual. I tell you this in confidence: he is seeing a therapist to work on his mentality. He needs people to see to his physical needs." 

Juan gapes. 

André nods. "Yes. I am asking you, in not so many words, to seduce Fernando Torres. To make him happy and keep him happy. Perhaps, excuse my language, if he comes, the goals come. You see what I am saying, of course." 

Juan gapes some more. 

"You will do this?" André asks. His eyebrows are raised, again; he -- he seems to want an answer to a question that Juan is still having trouble comprehending. 

Juan stops gaping, though his eyes are still wide, and pulls himself together enough to say, "You want. Wait. You think that. And _Raùl_?" 

"Raùl is very aware that he would otherwise be languishing on the bench at Liverpool," André says, "or somewhere else. But I don't believe it will be a hardship for him, from what I remember of the Primeira. He has always had a thing for leggy blonds, bleached or otherwise." 

"You're saying that Raùl," Juan stops himself. He's pretty sure he doesn't want to know. "And you want _me_ to." 

André looks at Juan, says, "You are young. Perhaps a fling with Fernando is what you need. Now. You understand your instructions? Your duties? We will have meetings to see how you're progressing, yes? Every other Monday. Good. Thank you for coming to see me. Enjoy your afternoon." 

Juan stands, bewildered, and somehow manages to leave André's office without running into anything or passing out in shock. He's quite proud of himself. 

Raùl's waiting in the hall and he grins when he sees the look on Juan's face. It makes his haircut look less stupid, Juan thinks, when Raùl smiles. Juan's not sure why that would be, but he smiles back. 

"Kind of blunt for the first day, right?" Raùl says. "And listen, kid, you don't have to do this. It's all right." 

"No," Juan says. He sounds vaguely mournful, but he can't help it. He's still in shock. "I have to. We're going to have _meetings_. He wants updates." 

Wait. Why did he say that? It's true, okay, but -- could he lie to his manager? Raùl's giving him an out and he's pretty sure that as long as Fernando starts scoring (oh god, oh god), scoring _goals_ , then no one's going to ask Juan any questions. 

Damn it. 

"Good for you," Raùl says. "And if you need any advice, let me know. Somehow," he winks, "I think you'll do all right." 

Raùl walks away before Juan can ask, one, advice, really?! and two, what the hell does that mean, he thinks Juan will do all right? 

Juan leaves Cobham, stands in the sun, looks up at the sky, and says, "I am so screwed." 

And then he promptly turns bright red.

" _Damn it_." 

_Tuesday_

Juan wakes up and checks his phone first thing. It's habit; being on a club team with David Villa and a national team with Pepe Reina, not to mention the terrifying technological trifecta of Gerard Pique, Cesc Fàbregas, and Sergio Ramos, has trained him to always expect the unexpected. 

That training failed him yesterday; Juan glares at his phone, then thinks for a minute and justifies his reaction. Yesterday was not unexpected. Unexpected is a new photo with Villa actually looking human as he cuddles his girls -- or smiling at all, really. Unexpected is Pepe being quoted as saying he thought about moving to Arsenal. Unexpected is Geri eating dinner without Shakira. Unexpected is Cesc getting a hair cut. Unexpected is Sergio not wearing something utterly ridiculous for more than six hours in a row. 

Unexpected is _not_ the word to describe what happened yesterday in André's office. Juan's sure there's a word that _would_ describe it, but he's a footballer, not a linguist, and he has no idea where he'd even _start_ , oh my god, it wasn't a dream, it really happened, and he -- 

His phone starts to vibrate. Juan nearly drops it but answers the call, heart still racing. 

"This is Juan," he says. 

"Of fucking course it is," Villa snaps. 

Juan pulls his phone away from his ear and glares at it again for betraying him. David Villa, before coffee, oh god. 

Wait. Coffee. That will help things. 

Juan gets out of bed, tripping over the sheets, then his shoes, then the carpet, and narrowly avoids running into the doorframe, then the kitchen counter. "Hi," Juan says. He rubs his eyes and stares at the coffee pot. It's new; he's not exactly sure how it works. There are -- it's chrome and there are a _lot_ of buttons. 

"What the -- did you just wake up?" Villa asks. "Jesus, it's like they have no work ethic over there. I called Fernando but he didn't even answer his goddamn phone." 

"Ha," Juan says, trying for a weak laugh. He's pretty sure he sounds more like something that's dying. "It's funny you mention Fernando, actually." 

Juan pauses, winces when he can practically hear the daggers coming from Villa. It's enough to make him drop the coffee filter that he thinks goes with this pot. It seems a bit bigger than it needs to be, though. Maybe when the water drips in, it'll shrink? 

"Why," Villa says, slowly, "is it funny?" 

Oh, right. Juan dumps a couple heaping scoops of coffee into the place where -- it doesn't _look_ as if the coffee's supposed to go somewhere else. 

"Well," Juan says, slowly. "It's just the _míster_ called me into his office yesterday and. David, you have Patricia, right? And you and Silva were, like, a thing." Villa sputters and Juan can hear him muttering about tenses and a city and fucking ridiculous giants and Englishmen with grubby -- grabby? -- hands. "And now that you're at Barcelona," Juan says quickly, moving on before Villa can start yelling, "there's Messi, and it seems like." 

"Juan," Villa says, and he sounds furious, oh, this is not going to be good. 

"Yes?" Juan says, closing his eyes and turning the coffee pot on. 

Villa clears his throat, hisses, "Are you. Juan, what the fuck are you trying to say, that I'm a man-slut?"

Juan chokes on air, prays for his life, and says, "No? I mean, you just seem to have a lot of, you know, uh, close relationships? I guess? And I just wanted to know, um, y'know, how you, well, _you know_." 

"...I have no idea what the hell you're trying to ask," Villa says, "and, you know what, _fuck you_ , Mata. I just wanted to find out how your first day with that English club was going, and you come up with _this_ shit? Fuck you." 

Villa hangs up. Juan takes a breath. His coffee pot explodes. 

"I hate my life." 

Juan's still picking coffee grounds out of his hair when he walks into the Cobham dressing room an hour later. He took a shower and washed his hair _twice_ but it's like the coffee grounds embedded themselves in his scalp. He's going to smell like coffee for weeks. 

Cech smiles at Juan, then frowns, sniffing the air. "Coffee," he says, like some kind of detective -- or a dog. A really, really big detective dog. With a helmet.

Three people instantly turn to Cech with that word. Suddenly Juan doesn't feel so bad about his own caffeine addiction; he would have at least waited a second and had a smell himself before he reacted. Well. Maybe not a smell. That's _all_ he's been able to smell since his coffee pot exploded. 

Juan moves on quickly, coming to a stop next to Fernando. Fernando grins down at him, though there are circles under his eyes and he looks exhausted. "Did you get a call from Villa this morning as well?" Fernando asks, pulling his shirt on. "Bastard woke me up." 

"You two have a very interesting friendship," Juan says. Fernando blinks at him and Juan groans, says, "No _coffee_. It exploded." 

"The. The coffee exploded?" Fernando asks. He looks concerned. 

Juan approves; mornings without coffee are incredibly concerning. "The pot exploded," Juan says, sitting down on the bench and staring at the floor. "And it's still in my hair." 

Fernando closes the distance between them and leans forward, sniffs Juan's hair. Juan's suddenly taken by the realisation that Fernando is _right there_. And he's not wearing shoes yet. 

He's supposed to seduce Fernando, who isn't even wearing _shoes_. 

"This is never going to work, is it," Juan says. 

Fernando steps back, crouches down and peers up at Juan. 

...Fernando's eyes are really amazing from this close up. 

Juan blinks; he has no idea where that came from and he has no wish to know. He focuses on Fernando's nose (he has _freckles_ , dear lord) and realises that Fernando has been trying to talk to him. 

"I'll clean it up later," Juan promises. He has no idea what Fernando said or why Fernando is looking at him like that, so -- so affectionately, it's really strange and there was no coffee and now Raùl is here, Raùl who _knows_ , oh god. 

Raùl has a hand on Fernando's shoulder. Juan can't see but he'd be willing to bet that Raùl's thumb is rubbing little circles into Fernando's neck and that's why Fernando's looking up at him, smiling like that, like Raùl is the centre of his universe and his sun and moon and earth all wrapped up into one and -- 

"Are you all right?" Fernando asks. 

Juan nods and resists the urge to glare up at Raùl. "No coffee," he says. 

Fernando sighs, lets Raùl help pull him up, and then Fernando runs his fingers through Juan's hair. Juan gets shivers; he tries to hide them and considers himself successful when Fernando doesn't mention it.

"I'll see if someone can get a shot of espresso or something for you, all right? You're okay to change and get out to the pitch?" 

"Fine," Juan says. "I'll be fine." 

Fernando gives him another look and then turns and leaves with Raùl. Juan watches them go and reminds himself of the _míster_ 's words. _Make Fernando happy._

Right. Fernando with his freckles and his eyes and his long legs and his ridiculous dyed hair and his smile and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles and the way his hair brushes his shoulders and his _face_ and -- 

Oh. 

Huh.

Fernando and Raùl disappear together after practice is done and they've changed back into street clothes. Juan gives the door his look of death and Lampard asks him if he's feeling all right. 

Juan sputters his way through a half-hearted explanation that doesn't even make sense to him. Lampard looks at him the entire time, watches him, and once Juan is done speaking, Lampard glances at the door, then back to Juan, and says, "Ah. Right. Well. Just get it sorted before you're all on the pitch, all right?" 

"Yes," Juan says. "Of course." 

André is standing in the hallway when Juan flees the dressing room and the way that Lampard, Terry, and Drogba are all watching him. 

"Mata," André says. 

"Gaffer," Juan replies, skidding to a stop. He called André _míster_ earlier and Drogba shook his head, said that wasn't right, here in England, leave the _míster_ -ing to the Spanish, and Fernando came up like he'd been listening, telling Drogba to back off with a smile. They both laughed and Juan felt hopelessly out of his depth. 

He still feels hopelessly out of his depth. In fact, the only time he hasn't today was on the pitch. Things just make _sense_ on the pitch. 

"How are things going?" André asks. 

Juan flushes, says, "Um. Fine?" 

André nods. "Good," he says. "Any issues? Problems? Questions?"

"No?" Juan says. 

"Good," André says. "Very good. Perhaps, by Saturday, there will be progress?"

Juan stares. André raises an eyebrow. His eyebrow has magical powers, Juan thinks, because he finds himself saying, completely unable to stop himself, "Definitely. Saturday. Yeah."

The eyebrow lowers to the same level as the other eyebrow, and André nods. "Good," he says, and walks away. 

Juan eats dinner and stares at his planner. He's circled Saturday with red pen, then put stars in each corner in gold. He can't write _Seduce Fernando Today_ on the date -- what if someone finds it? -- so he writes, in green and blue, _Flan Day_ and then underlines it in black, with exclamation marks at both ends. 

Flan Day. Yeah. That'll work. Except that Juan will never look at a flan the same way again. There are a lot of things he'll never look at the same way again, including people. 

People. 

He needs advice. He didn't go about asking the right questions with Villa; maybe he just needs to be more up-front about it. 

Yes. He needs to just say it, point-blank, and he needs to say it now, before he loses his nerve. 

Juan picks up his phone and calls Xavi. He needs some reassurance that not everyone has gone crazy; Xavi is one of the most -- well, not _stable_ , exactly, but Xavi is one of the people he knows that is least prone to most forms of madness that infect La Liga and _la Selección_. 

"Juan?" Xavi says, answering his phone like that instead of a hello or a how are you. "Is everything all right?" 

"Everyone has been _asking_ me that today and I don't know why," Juan grumps, settling into the corner of his couch. He loves his couch. It has never exploded all over him and odds are it won't. Hopefully. "I'm fine." 

Xavi sighs. He's probably raising an eyebrow. What _is_ it with eyebrows and why did he never notice before? "All right, you're fine, got it," Xavi says. "But you don't call me that often. What's up?" 

"I wanted to ask you about." Juan stops there. His nerves have deserted him in record numbers. He should have come up with a cover story instead. "I mean, I saw -- heard, I _heard_ that." 

"Should I call Fernando?" Xavi asks. "I'm sure he could come over there and maybe it would be easier to talk about whatever's going on to someone in person?" 

Xavi sounds really concerned and Juan immediately regrets the snapped, " _No_ ," as soon as he says it. "It would just be weird, you know, talking to Fernando about this, ha," he says, trying to brush it off with a laugh. 

"Okay, then," Xavi says. "What's up?" 

Juan takes a deep breath and says, "Howwouldsomeonetheoreticallygoaboutseducingsomeoneelese?" 

"One more time," Xavi says, "and a little slower, please. My ears are getting just as old as the rest of me." 

"How. Would. Someone. Theoretically. Go. About. Seducing. Someone. Else." 

There's silence from Xavi's end, then, "Are you. Juan, are you trying to seduce someone?" Xavi sounds like someone is strangling him. "Are you. Oh, mother of god, you couldn't talk about this to Fernando because -- Juan, are you trying to seduce _Fernando_?" 

Juan doesn't say anything. His face is wedged between sofa cushions and he hopes the cushions don't somehow catch on fire. Or maybe he hopes they do, because no one will care about his, his _assignment_ if he's on fire. He might even get out of it altogether.

"Okay," Xavi says. "Okay. Just. Just make sure that your back lines are well prepared, right? Stretched and. Ready. Don't press forward until you're. Listen, are you sure I'm really the right one to ask, here?" 

"Xavi," Juan says, then unwedges his face enough to talk and tries it again. "Xavi. I agree that teams really need to, um, make sure their back lines are really well prepared? But it's not _my_ fault that Chelsea has a defensive problem from time to time. I just got here. And I'm a midfielder. I could, I could bring it up with André?" 

Xavi sighs. "I wasn't talking about Chelsea, Juan."

"What do you mean, you weren't talking about Chelsea?" Juan's vaguely hysterical. He never thought he would end up hysterical from talking to Xavi. 

"I." 

Juan interrupts before Xavi can say anything else. "Oh, my, uh, show! It's on. So...I have to go. Thanks for the talk!" 

He hangs up quickly, then collapses backwards, lying on the couch. Juan stares at the ceiling, particularly the spot of coffee grounds right above his head. 

A few grains flake off and land on Juan's forehead. 

" _Damn it_." 

_Wednesday_

Juan wakes up feeling strangely sated, but also sticky. It's the first time in a long time that this has happened, though it's never happened to dreams of Fernando Torres before. 

"Today," he tells the ceiling and its clump of coffee grounds, "is not going to be a good day." 

As if in agreement, a few more flakes fall off and stick to Juan's cheek. 

Juan stops at a coffee-shop on his way to Cobham and after he's downed half of his triple-shot, he takes out his phone and calls Silva. Silva usually makes sense and Juan's seen the pictures of Silva with his City teammates. 

Silva makes sense, and he is nice, and this shouldn't be hard at all, really, what was he thinking calling _Xavi_ , of all people, ha, that was a huge mistake that he should have seen coming a mile away. 

"Silva," he says, when Silva answers his phone. "Hi. Do you have a minute to talk?" 

Five minutes later, Juan says, "Silva, I'm not sure what you're saying here, but I'm almost at Cobham now, so I should go. We'll catch up later, okay?" and hangs up. He looks at his phone, then turns it off. 

That was just downright _weird_.

Practice is awful. Fernando and Raùl are always _touching_ and they run together and they're laughing and every pass between them is perfect and Fernando scores and they hug and Raùl ruffles Fernando's hair and Fernando _blushes_ which just makes his freckles stand out more and, oh god, the way Fernando looks when he's just scored a goal is the most amazing thing Juan has ever seen in his entire life. 

"Saturday, yes?" André says. 

Juan jumps; he never noticed the _míster_ \-- no, the gaffer, he never noticed the gaffer was that close to him. 

"Uh," Juan says. "Yes." Fernando and Raùl have their heads together, whispering to each other, and Juan grits his teeth. "Definitely." 

André smiles. "Good. Now go out there and partner with Malouda, yes? I want to see how that works." 

Juan jogs onto the pitch and straight to Malouda. He makes a point of not looking at Fernando and Raùl. When he peeks to see if they've noticed, he decides that they haven't and manfully resists the urge to pout. 

So much for that. 

_Thursday_

On Thursday, Juan decides to wait until the evening to call anyone. Morning calls haven't gone so well this week and, granted, his conversation with Xavi was after dinner but, really, it was _Xavi_. He texts Miguel, Rubén, and Esteban during lunch to make sure they're going to be around that night and ignores Fernando. 

Well, he tries to ignore Fernando. It's impossible, though, what with Fernando _right there_ and breathing and existing and talking to him. 

Wait. Talking to him. "What?" Juan asks, meeting Fernando's eyes for a split second before letting his gaze slide slightly to the right. 

"I asked if you were all right," Fernando says. "You seemed kind of distracted today during practice and the gaffer doesn't seem like the type to let that slide during our tactics session." 

"Fine," Juan says. "I'm fine. Everything's fine. Really. It's all, y'know, really -- fine." 

Fernando frowns but before he can say anything, André sets a hand on Juan's shoulder and his other hand on Fernando's. 

"Everything is good?" André asks them. 

Fernando looks to Juan for an answer. "Fine," Juan says, giving André a tight smile. "Really." 

André smiles one of his infuriating smiles -- come to think of it, all of them are infuriating -- and leaves. 

Juan does not stick his tongue out at his manager's back while André walks to the next table and sits down with Drogba and Ivanović. He's very proud of his maturity. 

"Look, are you sure everything's okay?" Fernando asks. "It's just that you've seemed a bit off this week, and I know what it's like to leave Spain and move to England. Football's football but everything else can be a bit much at first. If you needed to talk, I. Well. I just wanted you to know." 

"Thanks," Juan says. "but really, everything's." 

Fernando grins, says, "Fine," along with Juan. 

They sit, pick at their lunches, and Juan asks, "Are you. I mean, you're okay, right? You and, um. Raùl?"

"Yeah," Fernando says. "I'm good. Just a little tired; Leo's decided he doesn't want to sleep this week, so he's been keeping me up all night." 

For a moment, Juan thinks -- but then he remembers, right, Leo, Fernando's son. 

"Raùl's kept me company while I've been out picking up things for Olalla," Fernando's saying. "Leo sleeps better during the day so she's been taking as many naps as she can. She hasn't felt like going out to get groceries and diapers and things for the house." Fernando smiles, looking over at Raùl, and says, "It helps to have someone else to carry things, that's for sure, especially when we take Nora with us." 

"I could help," Juan blurts out. "If you needed someone. To, um. Carry things." 

Fernando's grin turns a little softer around the edges. It kind of makes Juan want to have Fernando's skin beneath his fingertips; Juan has to check to make sure his hands are still on the table. They are, but he's dropped his fork. 

It makes him feel better, just a little, that Fernando didn't notice that, either.

"Thanks," Fernando says. "Yeah, definitely. Actually, I have to run some errands and help Olalla get the kids to the train station on Saturday; they're all going up to Liverpool to visit Grecia and Alma. Nora's _very_ excited. Only if you're interested." 

Saturday. Flan Day. 

"Yeah," Juan says. He puts down his knife and very carefully sets his hands in his lap. "Saturday. Great." 

Juan's phone rings at eight that night, as he's staring at his planner. In the same date square where he has _Flan Day_ along with underlining and circles and stars, he managed to squeeze in _Errands w/FT_ in the bottom right corner. 

"Hello?" he says. 

Something about his planner has become highly menacing. In fact, it's become so menacing that he didn't take it with him to practice today. 

"Hello? What do you mean, _hello_? We are three of your oldest." 

Miguel cuts off Esteban, says, "Not oldest, that would be, like, Puyi and Xavi, right? Or someone from Valencia; who were the old ones at Valencia?"

"Whatever," Rubén says. "Juan? You're all right?" 

Juan looks at his phone and says, "Miguel, do you -- is this thing -- can you all hear me?" 

"Juan, we're all together and you're on speakerphone," Rubén says. "We can hear you." 

"Oh," Juan says. Speakerphone, right. He should have thought of that. It makes sense. Juan eyes his planner, then reaches out with one finger and closes it before skittering away, back towards his couch -- it still hasn't exploded. His couch is actually perfect, apart from the placement, right under the coffee clump that's turned from a normal, wet, coffee-ground brown to something sort of half-black, half-grey, that looks as though it's going to stick around for a while. 

Rubén sighs, says, "What's the problem, anyway? _El pirata_ got a weird vibe from your text earlier and you know he doesn't joke about his vibes."

"Shut up, Rubén," Esteban says. "You're just jealous _you_ don't get vibes." 

"You shut up," Miguel says.

"No, _you_ shut up."

Rubén cuts off the squabble before it can really get going; Juan's heard the two of them go back and forth for _days_ , with breaks in between for sleep and eating and practice. "Both of you fucking shut up already, god," Rubén says and then sighs.

Miguel snickers, says, "Lord's name in vain, Rubén, not cool."

"SHUT. THE FUCK. UP." 

When Rubén uses that tone of voice, people listen. Even when they were all teenagers together, people listened. Rubén says he got that from his mother. Juan's met Rubén's mother. It's true.

"Um," Juan says. "Well. It's not. I mean, it shouldn't really. It's just that. And I'm not sure. You know?"

There's a long pause from the other end, and Rubén's the one that finally speaks. "You know, what? Finish a sentence already, Juan; we have no idea what the hell's going on over in London." 

"Jesus, calm the fuck down," Miguel says. 

"What was it you said earlier, Miguel?" Esteban asks lightly. "Something about the Lord's name in vain?"

This time, Rubén _growls_. "SHUT. THE FUCK. UP. _NOW_." 

Juan winces. "I can call back?" he offers. "Or ask someone else. It's not. You know, it's not such a big deal, ha, right?" 

"What the fuck is he," Miguel says.

At the same time, Rubén says, "Shut up and let me talk to him."

Also at the same time, Esteban says, "Oh, come on, just let Juan talk already. He's the one that texted us."

This is giving Juan a headache. It's probably giving his friends headaches as well, judging by the noises he's hearing. Esteban packs a mean punch and Rubén might not play anymore he can still kick like no other. Miguel is the worst, though, with his noogies and his wedgies and his tickling. Miguel is _vicious_.

"Juan?" Miguel. He probably used elbows. "What's wrong? What's going on there? Do we need to come over?"

"Speak for yourself," Rubén mutters. "Some of us can't just take off at the beginning of the season." 

In the background, Esteban says, "Oh, Jesus and saints preserve us, shut up." When it's quiet again, he says, louder now, like he's closer to the phone, "Juan. Are you all right? Is there something we need to do? Is someone bothering you? It's John Terry, isn't it? I told you to watch out for him. What's he done to you? Why isn't Fernando doing anything to stop him? Do we need to call Fernando?"

Juan had been staring at the television -- it's turned off, but his reflection is warped, just a little, and when he moves his head from side-to-side, weird things happen to the Juan reflected on the screen, elongating him if he moves a centimetre and squishing him if he moves a bit more. The second they mention Fernando's name, though, Juan's paying full attention. 

"No!" he yelps. "No one's bothering me and nothing's going on and you don't need to come and Terry's not that bad, really, for an Englishman, even with all the stuff he says in the dressing room and, look, oh, it's that show that I like, wow, I have to go, bye!" 

In unison, his three friends yell, "JUAN MATA DON'T YOU." 

Juan hangs up on them and turns his phone off. After a moment's thought, and for good measure, he shoves his phone between the couch cushions. 

In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have gotten those three involved. 

_Friday_

Juan's running out of time and of hope. Tomorrow is Flan Day. He has no plan. He's made no progress. He's gotten half of _la Selección_ convinced he's going insane and if his three friends show up at any point over the next week -- their longest group attention span is usually five minutes, but Juan's willing to give them the benefit of the doubt on this one -- then probably Juan's captain will come to some grievous bodily harm and the rest of his team will, rightfully, blame him for ruining their season. 

No time. No hope. Possibly no club goodwill. 

Flan Day. Tomorrow.

Juan is desperate. He calls Xabi, Xabi who is always so patient and understanding and brilliant, and explains everything. 

_Everything_. Even about the coffee pot, and Fernando's freckles, and how he warned Lampard during practice to keep an eye on Terry. 

Juan finishes his breathless storytelling and says, "Well?"

Xabi snorts, then he chuckles, then he outright _laughs_. Juan's tempted to hang up on him just for the principle of it. 

" _What_?" Juan asks -- well, screeches, kind of. It's less than twelve hours until Flan Day, after all. 

"Juan," Xabi finally says, once he's stopped laughing. Juan takes back every good thing he's ever said about Xabi freaking Alonso ever in the history of the world. "You've been trying to get everyone's advice on how to seduce _Fernando Torres_? Seriously?" 

Juan pouts; he's at home and no one can see him. He's not even in front of the television, so there's no reflection -- though it might be fun to see what different expressions look like with the weird warping effect. 

Xabi sighs, says, "Juan, Fernando isn't very. He's. He has a bit of reputation, yes, and I admit, it's a reputation that he's somewhat earned." 

"What. What are you saying, exactly?" Juan asks. 

"You don't need to seduce Fernando," Xabi says, bluntly. "Just ask him if he wants to fuck. If he does, he'll say yes, and if he doesn't, no big deal." Juan sputters. "Fernando and I are friends, and we've never gone down that road, but I've heard that if you decide to, Fernando is very skilled. But Juan, I want you to think about it, all right? Fernando. He's my friend, but sometimes he can be a bit cold, all right? I hope it's just sex and that you're not in love, because if you are, you'll get hurt."

Juan's pretty sure that, warped reflection or not, if he was staring at the television right now, his eyes would be very, very wide. He consciously blinks and forces himself to say, calmly, "Just sex. Right," even though he's sort of screaming internally. "Thanks, Xabi." 

"I don't want you to get hurt, Juan," Xabi says. "Call me, anytime, all right?" 

"Promise," Juan says. 

He actually manages to exchange goodbyes with Xabi before hanging up this time. In the tiny part of him that isn't still screaming, he's very proud of himself. 

_Saturday_

Flan Day. It's here. Flan Day is here. 

Juan wakes up at four in the morning and stares at his bedroom ceiling. He feels sick to his stomach. 

"Prepare the back line," Juan mumbles. "Don't get hurt. Press forward slowly." 

He gets up, turns on the kettle and takes out the tin of instant coffee. As Juan's waiting for the kettle to boil, he grabs his phone from the counter and scrolls through his contacts. There has to be _someone_ he hasn't called that he should have, someone who can help, someone who knows Fernando and won't kill Juan for asking about -- for asking about what he needs to ask about. 

Juan scrolls through the first half of the alphabet, slows down over Andres' name, winces when he sees Jesus', skips right over Sergio's, and pauses on Pepe's. Pepe's known Fernando for forever, right? 

The kettle's still working up to a boil so Juan presses the call button and then realises, two rings in, that it's four in the morning and Pepe is still sleeping if he's any saner than Juan is -- which means he has a 50/50 chance of catching Pepe awake. 

"Juan Mata!" Pepe says. 

Juan groans, says, "You are too awake for Flan Day." 

"Flan day?" Pepe asks. "I love flan! Why didn't I know it was flan day? When did it become flan day? Is this a national thing I missed somehow? Is this why you called me?" 

"Uh. No, not exactly." 

Pepe makes a noise, says, "Intrigue, _awesome_. Why did you call me? Are you calling to wish my team luck in the league this season? Calling to offer yourself up as an inside man, working for Liverpool's benefit?" Pepe lowers his voice and whispers, "Do you want me to put you in touch with King Kenny? I can, if you want. We've been trying to get a man inside Chelsea for _years_. Fernando is proving remarkably tough to crack but I think Stevie's been wearing him down, you know, and I have my suspicions about Xabi helping out, too. Subconsciously, I think Fernando's still one of us. You should join with us, too. Silva has already, or at least he's not an inside man for United, ugh." 

Juan chokes. It's as if the sudden loss of air to his lungs and his brain has made him realise: he is calling _Pepe Reina_ at _four in the morning_ on _Flan Day_ for _seduction advice_ to use on _Fernando Torres_. Juan is an _idiot_.

"Changed my mind," Juan says. 

He hangs up. Pepe calls back five times in the next three minutes. Juan is reluctantly impressed, until he has his caffeine fix and remembers, shit, he called Pepe Reina. The entire team will know about this by the end of the day. No, scratch that. The entire Spanish squad, from the tiny kids in the academies up to the coaching staff of the senior side, plus everyone in La Liga, plus the blogs, plus the tabloids, plus the papers, plus _Fernando_ will know about this by the end of the day. 

"I just have to make my move before then," Juan says. 

He glances at the phone, just to make sure it's really off, and then at his planner, and then at the coffee still on the ceiling above the couch. Somehow, he thinks his planner approves. 

Another flake falls off the ceiling and disappears into the pattern of his sofa in agreement. 

Fernando picks Juan up at ten. Olalla is in the back, squished between Nora's booster seat and Leo's car seat. She leans forward once Juan's strapped into the front passenger seat, pats him on the shoulder. 

"It's good you're going to keep Fernando company," she says. "I worry about him being all alone, sometimes. He always gets up to something when I'm not around to chaperon." 

Juan nods, wondering if that means Olalla _knows_ , and chances a glance at Fernando, who rolls his eyes. 

The stress is getting to Juan; he's not sure if he wants to lean over and lick Fernando's neck to find out how he tastes, or start babbling excuses to Olalla for why he suddenly can't stay. 

Thankfully, he's indecisive, which means he just sits there. That's much better than either option. He should really look for third options more often. 

With Olalla and the kids gone, he and Fernando make good time running errands and are back at the Torres house just after two. Juan helps Fernando put everything away and tries to decide how to bring up the subject. 

Flan Day.

Fernando pulls a bottle of wine out of the fridge and cracks it open, pouring a glass for each of them. Once Juan's gulped down a good half, maybe even two-thirds of his glass, for liquid courage, Fernando bites his lip. 

"Look," Fernando says. "I wanted you to know. Raùl talked to me about what the gaffer said to you two on Monday and, listen, you don't have to fucking seduce me, whatever, I'm _fine_."

Juan stares. "But. But it's _Flan Day_." 

Fernando stares at him, says, "Pepe called me earlier and said something about that. What does that _mean_? Is it some kind of code or are you really craving flan, because you should've said, we could've picked some up while we were out." 

"No," Juan says. He feels like crying. Fernando is looking increasingly uncomfortable, which just makes Juan feel worse. He's supposed to be _seducing_ Fernando, not scaring him away. "No, it's _Flan Day_. I put it in my planner and everything, and it's supposed to be _today_ and I called _everyone_ but no one had any good advice, and I've been thinking about it all week and." 

Juan stops there, because Fernando's put down his wine glass and taken a step closer to Juan, putting him in the direct path of afternoon sunlight coming in through the window. Fernando shifts on his feet but doesn't do anything when Juan reaches out and lightly traces his fingers over the freckles on Fernando's cheekbones. 

"You have _freckles_ ," Juan groans, and it's half accusation and half delight. 

"Are you," Fernando says, but stops when Juan's fingers move from Fernando's cheeks to Fernando's lips, tracing over them over and over again. 

Juan's mesmerised and he'd no doubt keep going, but a siren outside interrupts and startles him. 

He drops his wine and then raises his eyes to the ceiling in desperation. Fernando's kitchen ceiling is spotless. Juan suddenly feels a desperate need to see his coffee grounds. That spot has become incredibly reassuring.

"White shoes," Fernando says, glancing down. His voice sounds funny, especially as he adds, "And it'll stain your jeans if you don't. If you don't take care of that right away. Do you. We could throw them in the wash. If you wanted." 

Juan moves his stare from the ceiling to Fernando. 

"Wine," he says. "A broken wine glass. That's all it takes? That's _it_?" 

Fernando steps back, putting his hands up as if to hold Juan from attacking him, which is ridiculous because Fernando has thirteen? fifteen? centimetres on him. 

"I didn't mean," Fernando says, "unless you. But you were. So I. But we don't have to!" 

So many people have told Juan to finish his sentences over the past week, that they had no idea what he was talking about if he didn't. But now, with Fernando, it's different. Juan knows exactly what Fernando's saying, what every unfinished sentence means. He stares, then starts to smile. 

"Where's your washer?" 

Fernando grins and his entire face lights up -- but only for a moment. Juan thinks, very briefly, that Fernando's changed his mind, but Fernando just asks, "Would you mind telling me why Xabi called me last night and threatened to cut off my balls if he heard anything about you going into an emotional coma?" 

_Sunday_

Juan wakes up and looks at the ceiling. It's not his ceiling. He glances to his left, and winces at the sun coming in through the window. He turns to the right and sees Fernando, looking back at him. 

"I'll make coffee," Fernando says, before he leans forward and gives Juan a gentle peck on the lips. 

"Mmm," Juan murmurs, smiling. "Coffee." 

_Monday_

Juan practically skips into Cobham. He veers towards the manager's office and peeks in, grinning brightly when André looks up at him. Even the threat of a raised eyebrow isn't enough to scare him. 

"Flan Day is _all the time_ ," Juan tells his manager, "and it's _awesome_."

André leans back in his seat. His eyebrows stay down as he gives Juan a smile. "Good," he says. "Very good."


End file.
